Silence in the Library
by piperholmes
Summary: The awkward silence extended endlessly between the two men, punctuated by the occasional mewling of the infant in Branson's arm. Lord Grantham has to face what he's tried to ignore: Sybil and Tom. Winner of two Highclere Awards: Best Oneshot and Best Characterization, Robert.


**Silence in the Library**

**By: piperholmes**

**A/N: Just a quick note to say that this is my first fanfic in this fandom and I'm, of course, a bit nervous. I really love this pair and I have loved reading all the fanfic out there. I hope one more story will add nicely to the mix. This isn't beta'd and I apologize because I can't quiet decide if it's crap or not. Hopefully there will be something here to enjoy!**

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He was restless. The Earl of Grantham has spent the last hour rolling back and forth, tossing and turning, and flipping his pillow over and over again until a harshly whispered, "Robert!" emerged from the darkness.

Despite knowing what his wife was about to chastise him for he asked quietly, "Yes dear?"

Lady Grantham rolled over just enough so the moonlight sneaking in through the gap in the curtains reflected off the smooth, pale skin of her face. Her voice, gravelly from sleep, sounded as sympathetic as one could sound after having been woken in the middle of the night as she inquired, "Perhaps you could save the rest of your acrobatics for in the morning?"

Guilt pervaded Lord Grantham and with a heavy sigh he answered, "Sorry my dear. I seem unable to sleep tonight."

With a rather unceremonious flop, Lady Grantham fell back against her pillow. "Try some warm milk or a book," she mumbled, already half asleep.

Lord Grantham lay still in the silence, listening as his wife's breathing evened out and deepened. Knowing she was back asleep, and knowing he was no where close to achieving that particular state, he slid out of the warm cocoon created by the many blankets. The frigid December air was driven back by fires, blankets, and walls but still there was a chill, and Lord Grantham quickly slipped on his house shoes and wrapped his dressing gown around his night clothes. He moved cautiously to the door, mindful of his sleeping companion and, unwilling to turn on any lights, he crept through the darkness, gently turned the knob on the door and entered the hall.

Here the moonlight showed brighter since the curtains were much thinner in the hallway, allowing Lord Grantham to move easily toward the staircase. His breathing sounded loud and harsh to his own ears as the silence of the large house echoed around him. Behind the doors he passed slept his family, all home for the Christmas holiday; his three daughters and their spouses, the first official gathering of the entire family. The house had been a whirlwind of activity the last few days, forcing out the quiet that seemed to have permeated his grand home in the last several months. Lord Grantham had hoped that being surrounded by his family would help him forget the years that were passing too quickly, the world that was changing and becoming unrecognizable to him. Yet, as contented as he was to have his family home, he still could not rest.

He moved down the stairs, the heavy scent of pine tickled his nose, and he remember at the last moment to not grab the banister in the dark; he was libel to get a handful of the prickly greenery. The staff had worked hard again this year to ensure Downton Abbey looked picturesque this holiday season and he wasn't going to ruin it by blindly grabbing at it in the middle of the night. He may be getting older, but he wasn't so far gone to need to hold a railing. He continued down the stairs, contemplating his next move: warm milk or a book? Knowing the ever efficient Carson would some how divine that his lordship was in the kitchen seeking a beverage which would lead to a groom, a maid, and most likely Mrs. Patmore being awoken, he decided a book sounded infinitely easier and headed towards the library. He winced slightly as he risked turning on one of the electric laps in the main hall, the warm light seeming a veritable explosion when compared to the grey darkness he had been walking in. Squinting his eyes in an attempt to adjust to the shift in lighting, Grantham nearly missed the small movement ahead of him.

Pausing, his muscles tense and senses heightened, he moved hesitantly toward the library, realizing the movement he had seen was the library door closing. His army days, though long ago, were not long forgotten and with precision and deftness he made his way along the wall intent on taking any intruder by surprise. A quick glance revealed a vase of flowers on one of the side tables and, sending a quick prayer of forgiveness heavenward for what he was about to do with the vase his mother had gifted to him and Cora upon the birth of Edith, he snatched it up ready to strike. His mind worked quickly, running through many possible scenarios until he felt confidently prepared to handle an attack. His hand hovered over the handle and just as he was poised, ready to barge into the library he heard a tiny sound; a sound he knew and recognized, a sound that immediately disarmed him.

It was the sound of a baby's whimper.

His body sagged as the adrenalin fled, and very softly he pushed open the door.

"Sybil?" he implored gently into the darkness, the movement from the lighted room to the dark forcing another adjustment period on his sight.

He was able to make out the silhouette of a person by the window and from the stocky frame it was clear this was not his youngest daughter. He received confirmation when a deep voice responded quietly, "Uh…sorry, no." There was an awkward pause then the familiar Irish lilt floated again through the pale light, "Could you close the door please?"

Understanding dawned, and Lord Grantham, without thinking, stepped fully into the library and shut the door, plunging the room into darkness, realizing his mistake only too late: Grantham now stood in the shadow of the moonlight alone with his son-in-law.

Resisting the urge to close his eyes in frustration, he plotted the most subtle way to get back on the other side of the door. The awkward silence extended endlessly between the two men, punctuated by the occasional mewling of the infant in Branson's arms. Not Branson, Tom. He had been warned repeatedly by his wife, received a firm talking to from his youngest, and a raised eyebrow from his mother; Branson was the chauffer, Tom is his son-in-law. He was clearly still working on it, but believed himself to have done admirably well all things considered.

He caught Bran—Tom's eye in the pale light and noted the curious look on the younger man's face. Following his line of sight Lord Grantham realized he was still holding the vase of flowers.

"Bit of late night horticulture…helps me sleep," he offered lamely, now feeling utterly ridiculous and quickly setting the vase down on the closest side table.

Tom hid his skepticism well, and instead asked, "Would it help this little guy sleep?"

Grantham's gaze fell on the bundle in Tom's arms, and instantly his face softened; a little boy in their family, a grandson who had Sybil's nose and ears and blue eyes. The five month old had not borne the trip from Dublin to Downton well, and it was two haggard and tired parents and one cranky and unhappy child that had arrived four days earlier. When it was clear the child's mood was not improving, growing fussier and more discontented, the doctor had been called and found the baby had developed an infection in both his ears. It seemed that whatever the doctor had prescribed as treatment was helping, but not fast enough for his worn out parents. The adults had all taken turns, himself included, helping hold the baby and try to soothe some of his pain, but standing here late into the night he could see the exhaustion written on Tom's face as the young father swayed back and forth.

"Still not feeling well?" Grantham implored stupidly, unsure how to proceed with a man he felt so unsure around.

Tom shifted the baby in his arms, bringing him a little closer and gazing down at his son, answered softly, "He seems to be doing better during the day, but nights are still a struggle. He keeps waking up, quite unhappy."

Grantham nodded as if he understood, which he did in some small way, but most of the difficult nights for his girls were spent under the care of their nannies. His experience with a sick infant was quite limited.

"So you're in the library…it's a bit chilly in here," Grantham observed, trying to stave off a reappearance of the uncomfortable silence.

"I've got him wrapped up good," Tom replied, his voice gaining a slight edge to it.

Hearing the defensiveness emerging Lord Grantham scrambled, "No, I'm sorry, that's not what I meant. I was just curious why you were in the library of all places."

Tom's shoulders visibly relaxed. "Sorry m'lord…I…I shouldn't have…"

Grantham interrupted Tom's apology with a wave of his hand, finding a small amount of comfort in the knowledge that he wasn't the only one finding this situation uncertain and difficult to navigate.

The younger man merely nodded, then explained, "Sybil's a bit worn out. I didn't want the baby waking her once she'd finally fallen asleep. Nor did I wish to disturb anyone else in the house. I wasn't sure where to go, but this room, it's really the only room I ever visited upstairs when I worked here and it's still probably my favorite in the whole house."

"Mine too," Lord Grantham acknowledged quietly.

"I was hoping in these great annals of history I might find some advice on fatherhood," Tom admitted with a chuckle though if Grantham had to wager he would bet the young man wasn't really joking.

"There's nothing of substance to find," Grantham advices then added, "believe me, I've looked."

Fatherhood had been an unexpected challenge for the Earl. He had held his daughter for the first time and had been struck by how little he truly knew and understood about the world. Mary had gripped his finger and he remembered how surprised he had been at how alert the newborn was. So new to life and already her bright eyes were moving, eager to take it all in.

Moving from the memory to the man in front of him he saw, for just a second, himself. It was not the ex-chauffer but rather a scared uncertain father. He remembered that the Irishman's father had passed on several years earlier. There was no separation of class as Grantham was reminded of his experience with fears and insecurities. He too had been left on his own, with no fraternal guidance.

"I don't pretend to be a wealth of knowledge…" Grantham hesitated, he was suddenly plagued with the thought of his own success, or would he be categorized as a failure, in fatherhood. Was he a good father?

When Grantham didn't continue the silence between them stretched; it was too much to take in. It was hard not to blame the socialist before him, if it wasn't for him then his youngest would be married to some aristocrat and well situated in life. Surely that would be proof enough of his success. Instead he was at odds with his youngest.

Clearly uncomfortable with the silence as well Branson offered, "Surely you must know something your Lordship. Your daughters adore you. Sybil talks of you so often, being here in the library specifically. She's shared many fond memories of time spent in here while you were working. I suppose that's another reason I sort of found myself drawn to it. I know it's quite silly but I have very fond memories of this room as well."

"Silly?" Grantham pressed, unsure what Tom could be referring to and more than happy to take the attention off himself.

"Oh," Tom began, seemingly surprised by his own admission, "nothing really sir—just my ramblings from lack of sleep I'm sure."

Grantham considered Tom's hesitancy and came to one conclusion. "Does it have to do with Sybil?"

The icy blue eyes across from him widened slightly, but that was the only movement made as Tom answered, "It does."

The silence again entered the room, bringing with it the feelings of discontent and regret. Grantham shifted in the darkness desperately hoping he'd discover a window of escape, finding the meanderings of this conversation too heavy for a setting so unlikely as him in his dressing gown and Branson wearing his shirt and pants from dinner. Just as he was about to open his mouth to make his excuses Tom squared his shoulders defiantly, but still using a calm, soft voice continued. "I liked having conversation with her, usually in the car. She is smart and witty. She knows how to keep a fellow on his toes. I wanted to be sure we'd always have plenty to discuss."

Grantham felt the hairs on his arm stand. He was certain he didn't want to hear any more details. He didn't care if he woke the whole house; he was getting a glass of warm milk and heading to bed, away from this interloper. He had given his blessing, why did every one seek to require more from him, more than he was able to give. He was not ready to hear how the chauffer had seduced his young, innocent daughter.

As if sensing his father-in-law's retreat Tom stepped closer. "Would you mind holding him for a bit? My arms could do with a rest."

Robert's hesitation was clear. Was Tom surrendering the direction of the conversation as well as the baby?

"Please, for just a moment?" the Irishman pressed, weariness in his voice.

The squirming bundle made another small noise and the grandfather in him couldn't resist. "Alright…for a moment."

"Would you mind if I sit?" Tom asked, motioning to the light red couch that looked pink in the moonlight.

Grantham nodded and easily accepted the warmly wrapped baby into his arms. He was immediately struck by the baby's scent, a combination of Branson and the rose water he had been bathed with. The poor little fellow blinked tiredly at his grandfather and Grantham felt some of the tension slip away. The little face began to scrunch up and a small whimper floated into the air.

"Ya need to rock," Branson offered as he sat down with a sigh, his accent thickening.

Reacting instantly Lord Grantham pulled the child close to his body and moved in the same gentle way he had seen Tom moving. The baby relaxed with a loud sniffle but then fell quiet. Those round blue eyes gazed up at him, shining with the soft grey light. It was the first time he had noticed, assuming that since his daughter had blue eyes that they were like hers, but when he looked now, really looked, it wasn't his daughter he saw, but Tom. It was Tom he saw in his grandson's wide forehead and rounded cheeks. Grantham wondered if he'd ever really taken a chance to consider the child. He had held the baby before, as was expected. He had smiled as Cora gushed over how adorable he was, as was expected. He had arranged the finest gifts when the child was christened, as was expected. But here in this unexpected moment he seemed to finally see the tiny person in his arms.

"He has my chin," he whispered, slightly surprised.

"M'lord?"

Grantham did not respond. He merely continued his perusal of the tiny creature in his arms. He really was quite beautiful; perfect little nose, full lips, whips of dark blonde hair, impossibly long eyelashes, and a rather large head. The Earl chuckled at this. Of course the baby would have a large head.

'The better for your parents to fill it with ideas,' he thought amusedly.

A child. A child had meant the point of no return for Sybil, and now Grantham wondered if he secretly resented the child and what he represented. Born of two classes, a paragon or a bridge? Robert felt unease begin to build deep in his chest. This wasn't what he had wanted. He didn't want to be looking at his first grandchild and wondering if he could love him. He didn't want to be examining these emotions.

He turned to the child's father, intend on handing him back. It was better to just pretend then come to a conclusion he couldn't stomach.

Branson didn't respond to the movement. In fact it was clear by the way his head had fallen back and his arms sat limply by his body that he was asleep.

"Damn fool," Grantham muttered finding his escape truly thwarted. Truthfully he didn't blame the sleep deprived father, but his own desire to return to bed and to rid himself of the questions knocking in his mind drove him to resentment. He could wake him, hand the baby off and walk out. He was the Earl after all. This was his home.

The baby gave a small snort.

Grantham raised his eyebrow at the infant.

"I suppose we're stuck with each other for the moment," he whispered. What did one do with a sick baby?

Lord Grantham, master at Downton Abbey, did the only thing he could think of; he talked. He told the baby about the snow that had begun to fall from the darkened sky, he talked of what the child's first Christmas would be like and about Christmases past. He spoke about summers that would come and go, and made silly promises to help build a snowman and serious promises to help provide for his education. He talked until he looked down and found his audience finally fast asleep.

In that moment of quiet, in a grand room surrounded by millions of words and in the dim light of a cold moon, Robert Crawley felt a rush of warmth and affection. This little being, a perfect union of two worlds, trusted so implicitly.

Realization invaded his mind; this child trusted him.

Grantham moved as carefully as possible across the room to the matching red chair that sat opposite the couch and gingerly sat, not taking his eyes off the sleeping infant. Still unused to playing nursemaid the Earl hesitated before finally relaxing enough to rest the baby more fully against his chest. Feeling the child's warmth pressed tightly against him he leaned his own head back and closed his eyes.

A gentle shake awoke him.

As the beginning light of the day began to ebb over the horizon and change the shadows in the room, Lord Grantham met the eyes of his confused and concerned daughter.

"Papa?" Sybil whispered, mindful of the room of sleeping males. Her hair hung over her shoulder in a long braid, her body wrapped in her dressing gown and in the haze she looked just as he remembered her, youthful and beautiful.

Grantham blinked and sat up fully, wincing at the pain in his neck. It hadn't been a very restful slumber and it took a moment for him to remember where he was, but when he did he almost frantically looked to his lap, suddenly fearful of what might have happened to the child. But his fears were short lived as still nestled against his body was the baby, cheeks now pink with sleep.

Sybil looked at him expectantly. "Is everything alright?" she asked.

Grantham nodded as he stood, gaining more confidence in his abilities to handle the baby.

"How…" Sybil started but trailed off, unsure of what question she even wanted to ask.

Not wishing to admit any details, and not willing to rehash the entire night Grantham merely answered, "I couldn't sleep and Branso…uh, Tom, needed a bit of a rest."

He heard his youngest sigh, before she agreed, "I'll say, he was up last night with him as well. He's got to be exhausted." She glanced at the sleeping figure then turned back to him. "Thank you for helping."

Her voice was so sincere, so appreciative.

"He wanted you to rest," Grantham revealed, feeling unworthy of her thanks and trying to shift her attention away from him. "I'm surprised to find you up. A chance of uninterrupted sleeps would seem helpful to a new mother."

Even in the limited light Grantham could see her blush. Her gaze fell from his as she looked upon her child.

"I need to feed him," she admitted quietly.

Clearly years as a nurse and time promoting feminism couldn't erase the embarrassment of drawing attentions to ones breasts in the presence of ones father.

Suddenly uncertain where to look the Earl of Grantham's eyes darted around the room as he gruffly acknowledged, "Of course." He firmly handed the baby off. His arms tingled at the release of the weight and he felt a rush of cold against his damp skin where the baby had sweated against him.

"He truly is a beautiful child Sybil," he granted reverently.

Sybil's blue eyes stared at him, her expression unreadable. He was unable to offer more than that at this time, and hoped his daughter would forgive him.

She finally gave a small nod before telling him, "I need to get them upstairs." She moved towards her husband.

"Wait," Grantham implored, taking even himself by surprise.

They both froze, staring at one another.

"I…want I mean to say is…before…" Grantham stammered then angrily ran a hand through his hair. If he was honest he would have to admit that part of what upset him about the whole situation was his own uncertainty and inability to maintain control. He was a powerful man who had no power in this relationship.

Taking a deep breath he tried again. "Tom was telling me he particularly like the library because of his fond memories of you. I was curious what he meant."

His heart ached at the smile that spread across his daughter's face, the way her eyes immediately went to the still slumbering man and the secret he saw there.

"He would check the ledger to see what books I had borrowed, and then he would borrow them. We'd discuss them in the car. When I figured out what he was doing I went back and borrowed some of the books he had read. Then we started trying to one up each other." Sybil's smile only grew. "We really started to challenge each other, and the debates and arguments we use to have…no one had ever expected so much from me. I remember I was sorely irritated with him once so I borrowed some gothic romance novel to see what he would do."

Sybil gave an airy laugh at the memory. "He read it of course and I delighted in teasing him endlessly. We learned so much from each other. Tom calls it our Library Ledger Love Story."

Her happy expression faded at the grim look he was giving her.

"He truly cares for you," Grantham concluded thoughtfully.

Unsure if she was being questioned Sybil only nodded.

Grantham leaned forward and placed a kiss upon her cheek, the rested his hand against his grandson's head. "Better get your husband upstairs, his neck will be quite uncomfortable if he stays like that for much longer."

He left a stunned Sybil in the library and made his way up the stairs to his own bed, perhaps the first steps in his own journey across the Rubicon.

The End.

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**Well, if you've made it this far then I thank you! I have an idea for a longer, multi-chapter story if anyone is interested. I could fill the summer months writing it while I wait for the show to come back! Thanks again for reading.**


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